


Dew Drops of Love-In-Idleness

by Quaxo



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quaxo/pseuds/Quaxo
Summary: In Napoleon's defense -- it wasn't his fault that he hadn't picked up on the intentions of Peril's indecipherable woo... No, the fault lay solely with Peril's inability to clearly communicate. 
From the kinkfromuncle meme:  Napoleon -- thief, criminal, and beta -- cannot for the life of him understand why Illya -- alpha-iest alpha ever to alpha and compulsive rule abide-r -- is wooing him of all people, when there's that charming omega Gaby Teller over there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to the love potion that Puck uses in A Midsummer Night's Dream

AN: Title is a reference to Puck's love potion from A Midsummer Night's Dream. 

_____

Napoleon would argue, likely even on his death bed, that he had not been *oblivious* to Peril's flirtations -- he had merely mistaken to whom they had been intended. Really, fault lay solely with Peril's poor communication skills...

It had been obvious mere moments after their formal introduction in the West German dress shop that the Soviet alpha had been utterly besotted with the East German omega. By the end of the Vinceguerra affair it had seemed like only a matter of time before they'd be falling into bed, followed by a trip to the church, then nine months later a pup or two... It was moments like these that Napoleon felt blessed by fate to have been born a beta. 

He'd never understood why alphas and omegas always seemed so eager to start denning the moment a someone vaguely decent of the opposite sex crossed their paths. Certainly, there were far fewer alphas and omegas in the overall population compared to betas -- but the odds of finding a suitable mate were hardly so slim to justify their haste. 

Which is why it struck him as odd that nearly six months after their first mission as agents of UNCLE in Marrakesh, Peril seemed no further along in his pursuit of Ms. Teller than he had been back in Rome. 

Struck by a rare pang of pity, Napoleon had even waded into their courtship dance, trying to push matter along covertly. He proposed all manner of idyllic outings to the theater, the ballet, museums, intimate cafes, and exclusive restaurants -- ostensibly for the three of them, but with the intention of cancelling at the last moment --

Only for Gaby to beat him to the punch every single time with a series of increasingly peculiar excuses: a last minute meeting with Waverly, a headache, needing to wash her hair, the cramps... 

That left Napoleon to either call the expedition off and run the risk of having either of them discovering his subterfuge, or act as Illya's companion for the night. 

Fortunately, as long as Illya wasn't expected to make an effort, he could be almost charming. He had a taste for jazz music and his opinions on art, while entirely odd ("This Warhol is a better thief than you, Cowboy,"), were not abysmal.

It only made Gaby's hesitance to seal the deal with Peril seem more strange... Peril was handsome, strong, intelligent, and utterly convinced that she hung the moon and stars -- what more could an omega want from an alpha? If Napoleon had been an omega, he was quite certain that he'd snapped Illya up long ago. 

So, when the KGB requested that Peril be sent back to Moscow for a month of 'annual training' in April, Napoleon took the opportunity to invite Gaby for a long weekend in Paris -- the City of Love, and to get some answers. 

They'd gone to the museums, done a little light shopping, and visited a few cabarets -- it was fun, but a small part of him wished Peril were here... if only for Gaby's sake. Paris was for lovers, after all. 

"...I've no desire to butt in where I am not wanted," he said between sips of black coffee ("And yet..." Gaby murmured uncharitably). He'd chosen a little cafe facing a delightful park with outdoor seating so as to enjoy the warm spring day. "You've been playing a marvelous game of hard to get -- but don't you think it's time that you put poor Peril out of his misery one way or the other?"

"That's funny," Gaby took a bite of her croissant, using her thumb to delicately remove a crumb that was stuck to her lip. "I was going to ask the same of you."

That was when Napoleon's world turned upside down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *author rises from garbage pile* Wherein Napoleon starts to question things.

“You haven’t noticed,” Gaby peers over the rims of her sunglasses at him skeptically. 

“What is there to notice,” He scoffs, but he’s afraid it doesn’t quite hide his nervousness.

“He went with you to that Warhol showing --”

“He thought you were coming -- and then you backed out -- again.”

“Illya hates postmodern art -- why would he go when he knew I wasn’t coming?”

“He didn’t want to be rude,” which is a lie -- Peril loves an excuse to be rude, especially to him.

Gaby lets out a loud, unlady-like snort -- and Napoleon chooses the better part of valor, takes a deep sip of his bitter espresso, and refuses to speak to her for the next hour. 

***///***

While he is unwilling to cede to Gaby’s ridiculous notion that Peril had some sort of crush on him -- he finds that the man appears in his thoughts whenever he has a quiet moment. 

What sort of lover would he be? Although alphas had a reputation of being brutish lovers, and he had certainly borne witness to (and occasionally the brunt of) Peril’s fearsome capacity for violence -- he couldn’t reconcile the idea with a man he knew to grow misty-eyed over a performance of Tchaikovsky’s Enchantress. 

Hadn’t it been Churchill that described Russia as “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma”? Certainly it seemed an apt description of Peril, who was inclined to share very little of himself if it did not pertain to the mission. Yet, with patience, the coarse Soviet exterior could peeled from the man, like an onion, to reveal something on an aesthete --

An aesthete who was, if Napoleon was not mistaken, making his way through crowded London streets behind him now. Watching the man surreptitiously through the reflection in his sunglasses, he noted that Peril looked wan, even on this rare sunny May day. Stubble remaining from a hasty shave glinted in the pale sunlight. 

While he had no illusions that whatever the KGB constituted as annual training would be anything other than physically and spiritually taxing, he had not expected Peril to appear so drawn upon his return. There are circles under his eyes that even the shade of his flat cap cannot hide. Did they not give any time to recover before they packed him up and shipped him back to UNCLE?

As Peril nears, he pivots to the florist stand, flashing a quick smirk over his shoulder to let the other man know that he has been spotted. His attention then turns to the lovely spring bouquets spread out before him -- some tulips still (although they had seen better days), daisies and carnations, and some exquisite early roses in pale pinks and buttery yellows, as well as the classic red.

Peril comes to stand just slightly behind him, huffing slightly in exasperation. A glance at his watch reveals that they are due to meet in Waverly’s office down the road in a quarter of an hour. Of course, by Peril’s watch, he likely considered them already late, having never grasped the concept of fashionably late. 

The impish streak that his father had always lamented struck him, and Napoleon takes his time browsing the selection of roses, selecting one before finding a minor (or imaginary fault) and then replacing it. He waits until Peril’s frustration is practically palpable, before turning to the other man --

“I can’t decide -- the pink or the yellow?” He presents his chosen bouquets.

Peril pulls back sharply, clearly not expecting the question. His eyes narrow menacingly for a moment, trying to anticipate the joke, before he gives up. 

“The pink.”

Napoleon makes great show of paying for the bouquet in correct change -- much to Illya and the florist’s frustration. He holds the roses to his nose briefly, inhaling their sweet perfume --

“Hold these for me, won’t you?” -- before he casually swats the bouquet at Peril’s chest. The other man barely manages to flowers before they fall, spluttering, as Napoleon makes his way towards the tailor shop that serves as the entrance to UNCLE headquarters.

Napoleon watches Peril’s reflection in his sunglasses as the man juggles both the bouquet and his briefcase. Inexplicably, the other man pauses long enough to extract one of the dozen roses from the bouquet and slip it into the shopping trolley of an elderly woman, before he rejoins Napoleon.

“Why Peril, I didn’t know you had thing for little old ladies…” He smirks as Peril falls into stride with him. 

“It was wilting, ruined the symmetry,” is all Peril has to say before opening the door to Del Floria’s tailor shop.

***///***

Napoleon doesn’t think much of the flowers after that -- except to note their failure to appear on the desk of Gaby or one of the secretaries employed by UNCLE. He assumes Peril threw them away at his earliest convenience -- which seems a shame. 

The next week he arrives at Peril’s flat at an ungodly hour of the morning to pick the other man up as they prepare to depart for Jakarta. The flat is barely deserving of the name -- room enough only for a narrow bed, a hot plate, and a table. With UNCLE's per diem he could certainly afford a better place -- but perhaps he's homesick?

Then he notices that the table that holds eleven wilted pink roses in an old pickle jar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hopefully the next chapter won't take a year and a half to produce! 
> 
> Notes about this chapter:  
> 1\. The Enchantress by Tchaikovsky is about a beautiful and charming young woman, Nastasya, who runs a bar / brothel. Rumor gets spread that she is a witch who steals hearts after she rejects a man. Princes Nikita and Yuriy (father and son) both fall in love with her. In grand operatic tradition, half the cast ends up dead or crazy.  
> 2\. Yes, Napoleon, Winston did say it.  
> 3\. Russian superstition time! It is bad luck to receive yellow flowers from a lover -- yellow represents unfaithfulness. It is also unlucky to receive an even number of flowers -- even numbers are for funerals. Finally, flowers are allowed to fade a bit before being thrown out -- wilted flowers mean that the owner will get something new very soon.


End file.
